and after this our exile
by meowll
Summary: It's a constructed symbiosis that neither of them wants, but that they both need. In which L is weaker than he should be, and Light is kinder than he'd planned. Eventual L/Light, I think.
1. like dust I have cleared from my eye

He didn't use to dream much, or better said, he rarely remembered what he dreamt. It was a result of a well-organized life that didn't leave much room for unorganized thoughts, he presumed, or perhaps it was just that he always woke up early, and REM cycles are more likely to happen in the late morning. He used to like sleep because it was necessary for high functioning, another item on his daily schedule that was vital for a clear mind.

He once tried to set his alarm to Jean Michel Jarre's _Oxygene_, part two- always the same, and he always woke up earlier without getting the chance to hear it. Pity. He'd quit it after a few weeks. Now, his alarm was set on L- a rapid tap at the keyboard or some gothic song that still awoke Light, in spite of the low volume. He used to be a heavy sleeper, all in his benefit. These days, he sometimes even woke up when L exhaled louder than usual or simply opened the window. Sleep wasn't how it used to be, a set in stone activity that always took place from eleven pm to seven am, dreamless and dun. Now it was flexible. It was alive. Sometimes he woke up at seven, sometimes at ten in the morning, sometimes he would wake up just when L was getting ready to get his hour of sleep. It was unstable, and it often left him in a half-haze of tiredness for the rest of the morning, but then again, nothing in his new rhythm of life was what he would call normal.

It was mostly the dreams that made the difference, though.

He dreamt a lot, and there was nothing comforting about it. Dreams would usually come in the morning just before he woke up, leaving him with their aftertaste for the entire morning. He dreamt of prison cells- sometimes he was looking from the outside, contorted faces staring back at him from behind the bars, eyes full of spite and something else that he couldn't define and that was more disturbing than the overt hate. Other times he was the prisoner, a reminisce of his period of confinement, but his dreams were always worse than reality had been. He would scratch at the walls of his brain, trying to grasp something, anything that would guarantee him some kind of freedom, as abstract as it would be. He would spiral down with endless visions of blood on his hands, a blood that he knew he hadn't spilled. Sometimes, he woke up just before the limit point, awareness saving him from splattering his mind on the humid walls of the dream cell.

It didn't make any sense.

Other times he would dream of simple geometrical shapes, squares arranged in intricate, colourful patterns, moving as he stood passively, a strange sense of contentment taking hold of him, as if he was faced with nothing but perfection. Gradually, the squares would develop into buildings, streets, objects, human faces, their corners smoothing until they would find the proper form, eroding into the world he knew, falling into place as if everything was a game and reality was the only right answer. The colours would still be absurdly bright, and Light would stand somewhere high, a building, perhaps, or a platform above the decayed, glorious city, looking down at the world as if it were his own creation, letting the violent colours scratch at his retina with a strange sense of fulfillment. He would feel overwhelmed with beauty and grandeur, his mind and the world merging to form a kaleidoscope whole in which he immersed, complete and silent in the middle of the violent noise that surrounded him.

These dreams unfazed him the most. The were full of a feeling that he couldn't put his finger on. He felt as if he was everything and nothing in the same time, shaping the world as it shaped him all the same. Sometimes he woke up surprised to face the dull colours of the room that seemed trite even when the morning light cascaded through the window, almost eerie, almost pleasant, but too meaningless to tell him anything that he didn't already know.

It was one of these mornings now, and L was looking at him wide-eyed, curious, with the same expression that he had when examining new case files. Or sweets. Light couldn't tell if there was something else beside curiosity, though, and he didn't quite want to know either. Their mornings were strange enough as they were, both of them trying to adapt to the forced symbiosis that L had placed them in and that L didn't seem happier about than Light did. They were trying their best not to inconvenience each other, but it seemed like that was a luxury that their proximity wouldn't allow.

'Again?' L asked simply, and Light nodded. It was a strange way of communicating, what he had with L, convention mixed with a dubious shade of mutual understanding, a mix that left him unsure about where exactly they stood. Not having had any friends until then wasn't the problem, since L was hardly his friend. He felt more like a foreign body attached to him in the same was that Light was attached to him, not quite close enough to establish a connection with, not distant enough to ignore.

He hadn't told L about the dream, but the detective had probably figured something out, noticing the pattern. He didn't want to fuel his suspicions, even though he was pretty sure that there was nothing that could make L suspect him more than he already did. Besides, he doubted words could accurately describe the heightened state that his dream had presented him with, an impression of omnipotence and omniscience that made him feel like…

No, he couldn't think it to the end. It was too dangerous. Not a sin, because only regular people with lack of a better concept committed _sins_. Not petulance, either, because he knew that the human mind is wide enough in its potential to reach a superior awareness. It was rather his claim to dominate, to reign over a world that he deemed unworthy. The wrong interpretation given to power, because power was meant to be used in favour of the masses and to further mobilize them into power, not to lead a blind population as a blinder leader. It was…

He would have liked to talk to L about all these things, because he could be a great conversation partner when he wasn't sulking or investigating - alas, rather rarely-, but there was the labeled distance between them and the Kira tag that L would always use, and Light didn't quite want to know, to believe what L was saying. He kept silent.

Light checked the time- half past nine. L had probably slept for a couple of hours, judging from the dark lines under his eyes- only a bit darkened, two fine ducts digged into his pale skin which was not as swollen as it had been in the evening. His eyes, though- they were as scrutinizing as ever, though Light could read tiredness in them, an ennui that transpired through L's lazy motions and brief conversation. Light spent far too much time with the detective and had little else concrete to be interested in, so he noticed and noted the small changes in his posture, his manner of speech, his sleeping patterns, and he couldn't deny that it was interesting, like watching a plant grow and wilt and then bloom again under your eyes while you are waiting for the right moment to intervene.

L was exalted when there were new leads for the case, dedicated when he was working, as if the entire meaning of his life concentrated in the information that he had to deconstruct and stitch together- and it probably did-, tense and easily annoyed when he failed to figure something out from the first few minutes, content for the few seconds after making a correct deduction and depressed in the rest of the time. Light knew, because L had probably been the closest to a rolemodel that he'd had, and he liked to think that things hadn't changed, in spite of… well. Everything.

Light didn't know how to intervene. If L was sulking because of lack of progress with the case, any conversation he might try to start would eventually lead to a more or less direct accusation and then there would be anger and doubt and Light liked to keep a stable state of mind, and if L was sad because he was bored or because he felt like his life lacked general meaning, existentially speaking, then perhaps Light didn't admire him that much after all.

They went through the usual motions, a morning ritual that Light knew made L want to implode with boredom while he spent at least twenty minutes in the bathroom. In return, Light felt like climbing walls everytime he noted the lack of preoccupation that his roommate reserved for personal care. They both kept silent, though, and Light carefully suppressed the impulse to grab a hairbrush and set L's hair in order once and for all- or at least until the following morning.

Their mutual confinement was almost a pretty thing, and it felt almost domestic at times. But then Light remembered that he had no time for disillusionment, that L was a detective and he was the suspect and that things were very far from fairytale comfort, and he suddenly felt like the silence between them stretched wider than it was supposed to, multiplying itself to muteness.

They had everything, and therefore nothing to talk about- except for one thing, the one that neither of them would approach. They knew better than that.

* * *

L woke up to the sound of defined, almost brutal drums in his ears, dictating the movement of his thoughts. There was an underboiled rage humming in his veins with no apparent reason, a stagnant determination waiting to explode into something bigger. It took him a few seconds to identify the music- _Lucretia, my reflection_ from The Sisters of Mercy, the proclaimed soundtrack of his late teens, an ode to the automatic and the ruthless, to progress and reason. Back before he learned to pretend to have learned to be a robot, he used to lie still for hours with the loud music pumping in his ears and through his system, convincing him that his future would be amazing, glorious. Gloriously empty. He would chase the thought away, replace it with visions of cinematic bliss, crafted self-delusions meant to guide him through the night until he would fall asleep, or until morning would come.

Those dreams had come true, more or less. Of course, dreams are always better before they come true, because it's not a matter of hopes becoming real, but of _how_ they become real. By the time he'd become one of the best in the world, he'd dried out his motivations enough to make success an empty experience, devoid of any meaningful interpretation. He immersed in his work and keeping himself occupied, anchored in the present moment, had become his main source of entertainment.

Watari cared about him, and he wanted him to be human- at least consciously, he did. But there was something else, the wish of an inventor to craft a perfect invention, implacable up to automatism, superhuman. A robot of sorts. L knew that, and he also knew that he wasn't. He could never be. He always _felt_, even if it was only a dull sound, a dull ache in the back of his mind-heart, and he almost cherished that constant sadness, because it held him from completely forfeiting his humanity.

Humanity.

Such a lovely concept; a less fortunate joke, though.

He briefly considered reaching for his laptop, but it seemed too much of an effort for something that was not worth it at that particular moment. Instead, he decided on standing still and doing nothing at all, a precious thing when he could quiet his mind, but a slow torture when he was flooded with broken images and unwelcome thoughts.

Thoughts such as- Light; Kira; when will I solve this case; when will I go back to normal again; I miss England; I, I, I.

When a case dragged on for too long, he always started sulking because he wanted it gone, done for, solved, what ever would work to get the table clean and clear again. When he was free again, he would get bored and inevitably end up sulking. It was a vicious circle and L was aware of its pathetic nature. If complacency was a gift, it was the gift of the weak.

L wasn't weak. Not anymore.

When Light woke, L knew that he had dreamt again. He could tell by the way he fidgeted in the sheets, opening his eyes abruptly and looking around as if he saw the room for the first time, with a slight disappointment in his eyes. L couldn't blame him. The décor was simple, if not boring, the kind of room that has a sanitary feel attached to it, impersonal like a hotel room, an empty blackboard waiting to be filled with interpretations, feelings, memories. He couldn't tell if him and Light would have those things, because if there was something memorable in the Kira case, then both of them would make sure to erase it as soon as this would all be over.

There was also something else to be read in Light's reactions, though; there were many mornings when he acted the same, like going through a mildly unpleasant ritual. L knew that he had woken up from a dream that he didn't want to share, for some disputably important reason.

'Again?' he asked simply, and Light nodded.

After that, everything unfolded as usual. L had almost come to terms with their situation- almost, because being alone was something that he fed on like a perfusion, and spending every living second with another human being was threatening to his mental integrity. Watari had proposed their current arrangement, and L had accepted it because he knew that it was the best course of action. He had thought of it before, not without reluctance. He had been needed to resort to prolonged exposure to people for many of his cases, but never for so long, and never with Light.

Light was different; he was, in a way, everything that L was not and more. But the statement was valid viceversa, too. Light was intelligent, precise, composed. His mind was made of shelves that were carefully put in order. L's mind was made of thick tangled wires that made up the fabric for an entire universe, and he could find what ever he wanted to find in it, but it hurt. That was his disadvantage. Light didn't hurt, though in that morning, when he had woken up to an apparently unfamiliar sight, he had seemed like his age- vulnerable, confused- more than L would have thought possible.

He might also be- surely is- a mass murderer, but L wasn't put off by that detail. He'd seen worse. Kira was a fascinating case, clean and precise, almost impossible to trace. It was elegant, though the exaggerated idealism and excessively pragmatic solution that he had found to the problem of evil had the gift of making L scowl and pretend that Kira deserved more respect than he was inclined to offer at that moment, just for the sake of it.

There was a constant silence hanging between them, one that L couldn't label as uncomfortable, but that didn't feel like quite the right thing either. There was nothing untraceable, since they were, after all, chained together for an apparently endless case, and they hadn't quite communicated properly up to then, except for their conversations when Light was something different and dangerous, and L didn't know yet just how much he would have to invest in this case.

Overall, there wasn't enough motivation to go around, but L had learned to wade through the tenuousness of everything that happened to him, or rather of the interpretation that he gave it, with relative ease. And it was enough, for the moment.

* * *

`Do I dare to eat a peach?` L intoned with an amused smile playing on his lips as he took the fruit from the table, biting into its soft flesh. Light caught the reference middle-air, smiling back at L across the kitchen. It was a small, practical space with enough daylight to go around, by courtesy of the large window that offered a glorious view of the city. It was evening now, and the clinical feel of the artificial lights matched the city landscape visible through the window. Light thought it was beautiful, in its own way. L didn't even look.

`So,' Light started, using his chopsticks to pick up a small bite of sushi from his plate. To L, who would lose his patience only by trying to use the sticks properly, Light must look like a Japanese prototype: tedious. He found the idea mildly entertaining. `Do you miss England?`

`Yes,` L replied plainly. `I miss everything, to be honest.'

`Everything?'

`Everything. The rain, mostly, and the feeling of reality.' He paused. `It's all too perfect here to be true. It's dull.`

`It's deceiving, rather. It makes you uncomfortable,' Light stated matter-of-factly.

`Perhaps.` L looked tired, and it was a perfectly normal thing because the man didn't sleep, but Light found that L looked tired more days than not lately, and it worried him.

It worried him- strange thing. He didn't know L. They were two strangers sitting across at a table, exchanging brief words as if they knew each other better than brothers, which they both knew to be false. True. But it worried him, because L had to solve this damn case so they could both go home and forget about everything that had to be forgotten, and sulking was terribly impractical.

And unpleasant, for the most of it.

`We'll catch him eventually,` Light said and he realised halfway that this hadn't been the right thing to say, not at all, because it brought up something that they had both silently agreed to keep quiet about. L stood still, eyes fixed on Light, scrutinizing him in their stillness.

`I will,` he replied, and took another bite of the peach.

Light felt like sinking.


	2. abandoner

Back at Wammy's, Watari's office was a warm, welcoming room that had always made L feel like he was living inside a Victorian novel, all sober woods and chimneys and comfortable convention. In his first months there, he would appear in the office at random times and take a seat in front of Watari, saying nothing, enjoying the warm sun rays in summer and the flames playing in the chimney in the winter. Watari would ask him what was wrong, and he would start talking about anything, everything, what he had learned at his last Anthropology class, what he would like to visit soon, how the teacher's methods could be improved; he would talk to Watari because there was no one else that he felt lke he could talk to, and the old man would understand, smile patiently and reply half-distractedly, making L feel like more than a letter, even though he knew that he wasn't much more.

The man had always had a taste for grandeur and, now grown up, L had difficulties understanding how could his office back in England hold that atmosphere of classical comfort and intimacy, while Tokyo was host for a massive structure of glass build for a group of less than a dozen people at his indications. Here his office was large, but practically minimalistic, and the simple beige-brown colour scheme had something craftily fake about it. If he hadn't known better, L would have said that Watari, with his nineteen century looks and manners, didn't fit there.

He entered the room, nodded shortly in the man's direction and took the seat across him- equality, but not intimacy. A business meeting. Watari put his hands together under his chin in a careful gesture, but his eyes could read sincere preoccupation.

'Have you decided anything until now?' he asked in English.

'I already told you,' L replied. 'We can't possibly leave with a case in progress and a main suspect chained to me.' Watari looked at him almost scoldingly, but L was a grown man, and he could make his own decisions. 'It's a bit ironic of you proposing that, since you were the one with the idea of all this, anyway,' L continued, gesturing lazily towards the room.

Watari sighed.

'I agree that this is not the most…opportune moment for a return, but surely you understand my priorities.'

'Of course. But, as you already know, my priorities differ from yours,' L replied.

'Less than you believe. I know you don't enjoy it here. It would do you well to take a break for a few days. I'm not asking for more than that.'

'We can't take a break, Watari. If there are no leads for now, it doesn't mean that we can afford to risk a few days for…' L paused, pursing his lips.

'For a dying child, who has always looked up to you as a model in her life,' the old man said with gravity.

'Exactly. For a dying child, who will die no matter if I'm there to tell her empty words or not,' L said and they weren't pleasant words to say, but he needed to say them, because the world deserved nothing but the truth, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt. Watari's gaze told him that he had spoken with unnecessary harshness, and he couldn't not silently agree.

'I'm barely the right person to teach you a lesson on humanity,' Watari responded after a short pause. He sounded weary. 'But I care about the children, and we all care about you. You make it sound like a moral imperative, but I know that caring about them is not a duty for you. Don't turn it into one.'

L looked at him still, noting the honesty in his words. Sometimes it was so difficult to understand how people thought, how their minds and hearts really worked, because it seemed like an awful lot of complication for nothing in particular. Yes, he cared about the children at Wammy's, but he also knew that they admired the idea of him just like he, as a child, had admired the idea of being an essential part of a bigger machine, crafting his life in an almost artistic way- it was a lie, and he didn't want to feed their deception.

He did want to help, though, even if other people's definition of help barely matched his own, even if he refused to admit it sometimes. He did want to get out of this bloody glass building and breathe the rain again. Watari's offer was…tempting. It itched him to leave the Kira case when new leads could appear in any second, but he could work from a distance too, and somewhere hidden in his mind, he dreaded the moment when this would come to an end, because the end meant Light being convicted, and that, for some reason, didn't seem like the right thing at all.

He visited Wammy's often, but he didn't live there, because the place didn't bring back quite the best memories. He preferred to live in an apartment in central London, quiet enough to think and to work, noisy enough to make him feel alive (part of the machine). He knew R well enough, though. She was a pale girl of twelve or thirteen who had been diagnosed with leukemia a few years before. She was one of the best and she hadn't let her illness bring her down- quiet, but fierce, she had always regarded him with a sort of silent adoration that he never knew what to make of.

He couldn't chase death, or make pain more bearable, but he supposed it would be nice to see her again. The egotistical motivation, as always- but L knew that motivation wasn't something that he could choose.

He sighed, closing his eyes. 'What about him?'

'The boy?' Watari asked, a smile playing on his lips at L's unspoken agreement. 'I suppose he should stay here. It would be reckless to expose the children to such danger. If he really is Kira…'

'He is,' L said shortly, touching the tip of his nose. 'But he poses no threat. He can only kill with a face and a name, and the children's names are safe. I doubt he can surpass Matt's skills. Plus, I have my reasons to believe that in his current state, he doesn't remember being Kira. He would be with me twenty-four seven.' He spoke fast, on a low tone, thinking along. 'I can't possibly leave him unattended.'

'I understand,' Watari replied, but he didn't sound entirely convinced. 'If it's necessary…'

'Yes.'

'Then, I am glad that we're going home,' Watari smiled, and L couldn't help but shade a smile back, even though it, too, felt heavy.

* * *

Light woke up to an empty room. The bed at his right was unmade, giving off the impression of a carelessness that was characteristic of his roommate. _Roommate_- it sounded so casual, as if they were living together, as if they were normal people leading normal lives, socializing with people their age instead of living in a glass bubble, chained to each other. Roommates? Chain-pals, rather. At that specific moment, though, Light shared the chain with the bedpost, and he couldn't decide whether it was a more or less agreeable companion than L.

It was the second time when he found himself in this situation, but at least the previous time it he had agreed to it. In any case, it wasn't very flattering. He exhaled loudly, rationalizing anger and calculating the possibility of the chain extending enough for him to reach the bathroom. Fortunately enough, it only took a few minutes for L to return.

`Next time you tie me up to a bed consent will be required, if you don't mind,' Light said bitterly, but not quite.

`Good morning to you too,' L replied pleasantly. Light raised an eyebrow and the detective sighed, removing the chain from the bedpost and attaching it back to his wrist.

`I apologize. I hadn't expected you to wake up for at least an hour more,' the detective replied on monotone and Light had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Well, at least L had been full of good intentions, but the fact that he believed unawareness to be more comfortable than conscience while in an unpleasant situation didn't tell Light very nice things about him.

Few things did that anymore, actually.

'It's a bit rude to decide for other people, isn't it?' he continued on a light tone , out of curiosity more than of any real wish to annoy L, but when he turned around from the sombre mahogany closet where his clothes were stacked in and arranged, the detective's narrowed eyes were fixing him in a steady look.

'Well, you prefer to decide for yourself, don't you, Light-kun? You decided that you wanted to be imprisoned and supervised. Making one's own decisions allows the possibility of perfect timing, doesn't it?' His tone was low and had a threatening aura to it; it came out of nowhere and it unsettled Light, as much as he liked to pretend that he knew what L was going at, as much as he should have gotten used to the detective's unexpected fits of accusation.

'Don't,' he replied, not looking at L. 'You believe me. You know.'

'What do I know?'

'That I'm…' Light took a deep breath; he hated this, he hated that L made him say it, uncover it from the dust and mould that he would rather leave it rot under. He hated the game, and he was tired of pretending not to play it. 'That I'm not Kira now.'

That word, there- it made all the difference in the world, and made L's eyes widen for the slightest of a second. He visibly relaxed, and his attitude returned from overtly determined to unreadable.

If he didn't know better, Light could have said that L looked resigned.

'Yes, I'm sorry. It must've slipped my mind,' he said absent-mindedly. Light added nothing more, letting silence linger on, wondering what did L talk about with Watari this time and trying to ignore, without more success than usual, that panic button in the back of his mind that told him that any moment could be the one when he fully remembers being Kira, and becomes something entirely different once again.

It was like an ever-present full possibility encumbered in each second- the memory, the awareness, the rich, corrupting feeling of holding the world in his hands. He knew that he would have left a way out for himself, some way of triggering his memories.

He was afraid to consciously think of the options he could have provided himself with. He was too scared of getting it right.

When he got out of the shower, L was carefully following a ritual of folding his clothes and placing them in a small black case. His laptop was playing a languid electronic melody, the vocalist sang about his name and knowing who he was and it was a strangely fitting soundtrack for L's calm, coordinated motions. There was a quiet determination in his gestures, and Light could tell that L looked almost disappointed when he stepped out of the bathroom. It made sense; they barely had any intimacy, and even when they were in different rooms, the conscience of the other's presence at the opposite end of the chain didn't help any impression of freedom.

`Where are we going?` Light asked, only briefly aware of using the plural pronoun form, still caught in the image of L focused on apparently meaningless things, such as building jelly towers or arranging strawberries or, it seems, folding clothes. There was a strange sense of fascination to it, like he was fully living in the present moment, caught between the walls of his own patterned actions, but without being a captive. It was... beautiful, despite his dishevelled appearance and apparently unaesthetic features. Light had read about rituals and he supposed that these little patterns were L's way of finding peace of mind in the middle of his flooded train of thought. Disciplining the mind through acting upon the body, the concrete. Light knew; for him, too, routine was often more than routine.

'England,' the detective replied. `There has been a shift in priorities, it seems.'

'Something that suddenly made the Kira case fall second,' Light replied, mentally going through a list of things that could be more important than the case. Nothing was ever more important than the case. Not enough to send them off to England, anyway. L had invested all his energy in searching for- hunting- playing with Kira, the way Light supposed he always did when focusing on a job until his life revolved around it. What could be more important?

`Not quite. The case is still my priority, but we can work from London for a few days. The team will stay here and they will report if anything notable happens, and we can always take the first flight back in case of an emergency, though I doubt it will be the case.'

_Because you're working under the assumption that Kira will be with you all along, _Light almost said, and the L in his head replied, _Naturally_.

`What are we doing there?`

L stopped still for a moment, eyes wandering upwards as if he was searching for the right answer, and said,

`Mourning.'

`What do you mean, mourning?` Light asked cautiously and L sighed, as if opening his mouth to say one more word would be an impossibly useless matter.

'One of the children at the orphanage that I grew up in is very sick. Doctors don't give her much time.'

'Not mourning, then. Helping.'

'Well, there isn't much help to be given, is it?' L seemed to talk to himself more than to Light, curling unspoken words around him like a shell to guide him from evil; Light didn't know what to make of it, but the thought of L feigning indifference to protect himself from possible feelings was somehow worse than L not having any feelings in the first place.

`There is always moral support, and you know that.' L didn't seem quite content with the perspective of leaving to England- perhaps Watari had convinced him? Emotional manipulation? No, L wasn't that weak. The other option was that he genuinely cared about the girl.

L shrugged. `Offering moral support implies having moral values of one's own,' he droned, closing his case. He slouched on the floor, leaning with his back against the bed.

'Which you obviously do have,' Light stated questioningly and L smiled, a rare thing, not his fake, irritating justice-will-prevail smile, but a genuine expression. It was sad, though- a hint of bitterness in the way his lips curled upwards, his eyes still stern and penetrating.

`Do you believe that?' he asked, looking at Light.

'I… would like it to be true, yes,' Light replied, shielding honesty in a casual tone.

'Why?' Light didn't know if to label the spark in L's eyes as curiosity or malice. Both, perhaps.

'I'd like to know that the man who imprisoned me had the right to do it, more than legally so. And… I guess I'd also be a bit disappointed if it weren't true.'

'Disappointed in me?'

'In the image that I had of you, rather,' Light admitted.

`You are grown up and intelligent enough to know that people aren't what you make of them, of course,' L questioned, raising an eyebrow.

'Of course.'

`Then, you know what to expect of me.'

'As little as that could possibly be, I'd still expect you to pretend for the sake of comforting someone who's on their death bed. Someone you care about,' Light added, looking at L expectantly. L fixed him with clear eyes, ebony black that could have stripped Light of all his pretenses as well as it could have stared into nothingness, wide-eyed and oblivious. L nodded, a sign of misplaced approval.

'Fair enough,' he said. 'We are leaving tomorrow morning.'

* * *

L played an unsettling song the entire evening, passive-aggressive rhythm and staccato drums, a quiet storm of disquieted feeling boiling under words about razor eyes, walls and human duets. Light kept quiet, bearing with the storm for the sake of not being dragged into it.

* * *

A/N: I am rather bad at writing things that actually have a plot. I hope I'm doing at least some things right.


	3. insurgentes

Wammy's house was the impressive manor that Light had expected, though the effect that it had on him was dimmed by poor night visibility and post-flight fatigue. They arrived by night, when all the children were still asleep, large corridors dimly illuminated by wall lamps making Light feel like he had moved back through time. It was quiet except for occasional murmurs coming from behind the closed doors they passed by, and Light could catch a glimpse of a blonde-haired boy leaning over a book in the library, even though it was past two in the morning. Watari led them to their room, a large chamber with a view to the lake nearby. It was cozy and it looked more like a resort room than a students abode, which made Light imagine for a second that he was on vacation and not under continuous surveillance, forced to go anywhere his captor was going.

Still, the fact that he had never been outside the borders of Japan before coupled with L deciding to remove the chain for their trip, since the children couldn't know that a possible mass murderer was living under the same roof as they were, made it seem more interesting that it should have been. Light doubted L's motivation for getting rid of the chain- after all, he could have claimed that Light was a simple suspect for a usual crime, as the children were already being trained to deal with such things- but it was a soothing break for both of them, an extended illusion of freedom and a bit more personal space. L was still supposed to stay with Light twenty-four seven, but at least now they could put more than a couple of meters distance between them, which was always welcome.

Light fell asleep a few minutes after he set his head down on the pillow, mind blissfully exhausted and empty.

* * *

It had been a while since L had visited Wammy's, even before the Kira case. He always tried his best to evade Watari's insistences, though he knew they also reflected many of the children's wishes, and claim that he was very busy with a case. Sometimes it was the unaltered truth, but sometimes it was a lie and L pushed guilt in the back of his mind as best as he could, fronting that he has the right to and that the children don't really need him there, but knowing that the truth was another story altogether.

There was something about going back to his childhood home that unsettled him. He'd never had anything close to a happy childhood. He knew how the story went: he could have been living on the streets, struggling to survive, and instead he was offered a home and an opportunity to make something of his life. He knew that. But he also knew that every human being struggles to survive in their own way, and that his childhood had been no exception. The continuous study and exhausting training, the other children who were mostly either envious and aggressive or indifferent; either tedious or interesting, but not interested in him. The difficult situation of being the best, the confusion of doing everything he had to do, even though his motivation was slowly draining under the pressure of becoming someone wonderful and impossible, a ghost, a dream. Watari, always doing what was best for him, impeccable in his intentions, but doubtful in their practice. B, a constant terror in the back of his mind, who eventually had… and her, _her_, his only friend, who…

He didn't want to think of it. Wouldn't.

But of course he would.

It was morning and Light would sleep for at least two hours more, since the flight had worn him out. He could be left alone for a while- only this time. L wanted to be there, always, in case the trigger was pulled and Light became Kira and the world turned upside down again, but this was different. This was him, his history, his shelter to retreat to like a shrine to the past and perhaps he was being egotistical, but he had never claimed otherwise.

He put on a pair of blue jeans and a black t-shirt and brushed his hair as much as he could, tying it back in a ponytail. It looked awkward, but he preferred it to its long, messy alternative . His hair had grown far too long for his liking, but messy negligee look had more impact when his hair looked like it hadn't been cut in ages. He straightened his back, grimacing at the ache that it brought to his muscles- it would take a while to readjust to sitting normaly, and it wasn't even permanent, not yet.

The dark lines under his eyes, even though a part of his persona, were truly his, as were sleeplessness and insomnia, long nights spent working or pondering on weightless things on the gloomy soundtrack of post-punk accords.

He tip-toed on the hallway and down the stairs, catching a glimpse of Mello asleep in the library again. He sighed and made a mental note to try to talk him out of it, again.

The morning air was cool and crisp, a welcome repose from the suffocating air in Tokyo. L liked the place when it was silent and eerie, when he could breathe in the air without rushing his pace, absorbing everything and thinking of nothing, if only for a few minutes. They used to walk together when they were children and she had taught him the fragile art of simply being alive, back before she was…

He reached the lake, a pond encircled by large birch trees. Their place was a small portion of green grass at the left of the road that led there, guarded by a younger tree that cast its shade over the water. It was behind a small hill, a place not too remote, but where they could barely be spotted. It had been perfect for skipping classes, on the rare times when he could convince her that missing a course wouldn't be the end of the world, for long talks when she would ask him things that he had no idea about and would craft half-coherent answers that she would nod to, even though she knew the truth, for watching the movement of the stars and wondering, wishing for something more.

He had learned not to think about it too much after the times when it would surface and eat at his mind and soul until he was left a mess, a constellation of hopeless and angry, of absurd and revolt. But years had passed and coming back to Wammy's still reminded him of her. He still hadn't visited her room- what was left of it, after a new student had moved in. Her words still echoed in his mind when he felt low enough to sink, and even though they came from a thirteen-year-old somewhere back in his timeline, they were always comforting.

They used to go for a walk every morning, barefoot through the dewy grass, reveling in the silence before the sunrise. She had told him that her mother used to take her for such walks at their cottage, back before the accident.

She was holding on to a memory, letting it leak through time from past to present, turning it into something new, melancholy shaped into a moment of quietness shared with a friend. L watched the sun rise, trying to imagine what she had felt, remembering those days when things still hadn't fallen so badly out of place. He still couldn't let her go, as if there was something he had missed. As if. He couldn't turn her into something else, not when her memory was more bitter than sweet, her death more questions than answers. He was weak, weaker than she had been, even though he had always been the one to comfort her.

He knew whom to blame. He had been there, and he had gotten revenge- he knew it was revenge, disguising it as justice would have been to hypocrite of a lie- but it was a petty thing as long as it didn't bring her back.

`Hello, Lawliet,' a voice said from behind his back. L froze. It was a voice that L could have recognized anywhere, despite the hoarseness that the years had added to it.

He turned around to see Beyond Birthday leaning on the nearest tree, slouched and looking more tired than L had seen him before. But again, he had never visited him in prison. He had been afraid he would kill him on the spot, all reasonable thinking aside. His black, spiky hair was disheveled, dark circles surrounding eyes that L had often met in his nightmares.

`I see that you've picked up on my latest appearance, then,' he said, being careful to keep anger and fear away from his voice.

`Always a chore,' B replied with a theatrical sigh. 'How am I supposed to become you if you have no idea who you are?' He paused. `Because we both know it's not just the looks, is it?'

L didn't reply, fixing B with a still gaze, clenching his fists. Breathe, breathe. He hasn't come for you. He would've killed you already. He's the one who deserves to die, who…

Breathe.

'This one's close to your original one, isn't it, though?' The man's voice was low, hoarser than L's, with a playful tone that shielded cruelty, a veritable trickster. 'Aren't you afraid of exposing yourself like this? Especially to him.'

B shouldn't- he shouldn't know these things. Of course, L wasn't stupid enough to believe that he had been inactive in his years of prison, of course he would keep L under surveillance still- after all, you don't just quit your purpose in life, do you? Especially B, who wanted- what did he want?

'Or do you know that you've lost the game already? That's why you don't bother anymore?' The man's face was serious now, the kind of composure that usually preceded the breakdown, the storm, but L could read tiredness on his features. Perhaps prison hadn't been as kind to him as he had expected.

'What do you want?' L asked.

'You're afraid I'm here to kill you,' B stated, reverting his slouch into a straight posture that matched L's, giving up the parody. 'I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you.'

'Stay away from the children,' the detective warned, voice razor sharp despite feeling like his feet could have collapsed under him at any moment. It wasn't always like this- he was never this scared, because people were silly and he had a strength that could outmatch theirs anytime, but this was B, this was the man who knew his biggest weakness. He couldn't pretend towards him, not entirely, and the dread that L felt towards him came from somewhere back in his childhood, roots too deep to be stirred and cut off.

`Oh, I have no interest for the children. I was only interested in you, and you beat me. I would call for a rematch, but we're a bit too old for childish games, aren't we, Lawliet?'

'You've never seen your ambition as childish,' L said.

'Have you?'

'Not really.'

B laughed, a guttural sound that echoed through L's bones.

`Haven't you, now? I've spent my life trying to surpass a man who never wanted his position.' L's eyebrows arched. He felt nauseous. 'Did you really think I don't know who you are? I know everything. You,' he continued, stepping towards L, 'are a lie.' The detective shuddered- he was too close, the air was unbreathable, too much. Breathe in, breathe out-

'Of course, you're brilliant. But you've never been one of the strong ones.'

'Wrong,' L gritted through his teeth. He felt anger boiling in his veins, threatening to surface, the bitter mixture of feeling that B brought into awareness, crawling through his veins and eating at his heart, overcoming fear/

'Wrong?' B replied, eyes lit with something terrible and ominous. 'I was there. I'd just killed her, squeezed the life out of her, and you couldn't even stand to watch afterwards, they had to carry you away. I hadn't even scarred her. Looking back at it, you could even consider it a favour. And now, I knew I would find you here. So predictable. So weak.'

'Shut up. Shut up.' Words were caught in his throat as L's hands went to B's neck, he had him now, he should have had him sentenced to death from the beginning, he could fix things now, fix everything-

B used his right arm to push L's hands down from his neck, simultaneously kicking him with his knee and freeing himself. L went at him again, he couldn't have him escaping now, not ever, but B pushed him away with ease. Blind anger was not a match for cold lucidity. Why was B so sober? He was the bloody murderer, he should have been…

L had to wake up. He could still call Watari.

'Don't ruin the fun,' B said when he saw L reach for his phone, still breathing heavily. 'I told you I have no intention of hurting you.' L knew he was lying, must be lying. 'It's been, what, four years? I'm done with it.' He regained his breath and a smile found its way on his lips once again, sly and deranged, but milder than what L had remembered. 'He'll be the end of you, anyway. What a pity. I've never liked him and his half-arsed pretext for murder anyway. Hypocrite, don't you think?'

'Better than you,' L spat out out of spite more than anything.

'Lie,' B sang.

'Why are you here?' L asked, emphasizing on every word with a demanding tone, voice trembling despite his best efforts.

'Just came to say hello. I figured that we could go for a coffee one day. I can tell you how I escaped and you can tell me how you've fallen for the Yagami boy too much to kill him. He reminds you of her, doesn't he? On good days, of course.'

L looked at him blankly, still breathing, still waiting for the storm to subside. He had to be patient.

He was in no real danger. B was tired.

Yes.

But it wasn't as much about fear and danger as about B, and what he had done. What it had meant to him. L had closed him off in a far away place at the back of his mind, had tried to, and now he was there again, as real as ever in front of his eyes.

'You'll go back to the usual, I suppose,' he said.

'Oh, you know me too well. I'll try,' he shrugged. 'The thrill of it is starting to wear off, though. Growing old, I guess. Surely you know what I mean.'

'The police will be on your tracks.'

B sniffed. 'Bunch of idiots.'

'I will be on your tracks.'

He smiled. 'So why don't you start now?'

L said nothing.

_I don't know._

'I knew I could count on you,' B smiled. He came close, too close, and slipped a piece of paper in L's pocket. L breathed in, breathed out. 'My number, in case you want to honour that invitation one day,' B said, then he was gone.

Just…gone.

L absent-mindedly watched him ascend the hill, feeling like he was living in a dream.

He reached for his cellphone, but it was gone, only a white piece of paper in his pocket, scribbled with a number written in cursive. For a bloody murderer, B surely had a tidy handwriting. When had he snatched L's phone? Had L been so far gone that he hadn't noticed? He still remembered in a haze about the day when B had killed her, followed by a bigger haze, days to fill the void, the all-consuming sadness and fury of being helpless in front of B, of life and death and all his friends. Had it been the same now, fear and trauma too strong to allow him lucid thinking?

He headed back to the mansion, having to remind himself to walk faster. Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe they could still catch him. He opened the door to Watari's office; the man was having his morning coffee.

'He's back,' he announced, and the man's eyes grew wide.


End file.
